Roses Are Red
by White Rose Withering
Summary: Its petals almost too dark and rich a colour to be called red.


Disclaimer: Spooks and all it's characters belong to Kudos and the BBC. Seriously if i owned Spooks, Harry wouldn't be staring down the barrel of a gun right now

Author's Note: Trust my first fic in weeks to be about these two hopeless romantics, and on Valentine's Day too!  
I really must apologize for this now, before anyone reads it. And please don't ask me to continue it! I don't want it to become tacky, and its in real danger of that, if not there already.  
So please enjoy and don't forget to leave a review, it's your reviews that make me want to write more.  
Look Kassy, i remembered the spaces this time!

Roses Are Red

The sun rose above the clouds just enough to pulse against the closed curtains like pale peach liquid. Not yet sufficient enough to penetrate the darkness that loomed above the doorway, under the bed and between the wardrobes, it cast the room in an eerie half light. Shadows of passing traffic danced across the walls. Their muffled sound swallowed by first light.

A moan, that might have been a name, broke the peaceful silence. Fingers tightened on the pillow, entwined in the cotton sheets as she shattered through the misty surface of a dream. The momentary amnesia that follows sleep took its hold, before she slowly became accustom to the noises of the road outside her window and the soft padding of her cat on the landing. As consciousness seeped through her limbs, she reached out to something beside her. A frown creased her groggy brow as she groped cold air.

Her eyes opened with a sweep of graceful lashes. Those clear blue eyes drifted over the now vacant side of the bed with a pang of disappointment. Not that she honestly expected him to be there when she woke up. If they wanted to keep their relationship secret then the constant sneaking about was necessary. She winced as the reminder ran through her mind. _Sneaking about_, it made it sound like nothing more than a sleazy affair. Hell maybe it was. She raised herself into a sitting position and took in the rest of the bedroom. It was slightly neater than the night before. Her clothes had been neatly draped over the chair in the corner of the room, the unturned vase had been set right, and the mirror had been picked up and placed back in its original position on the chest of drawers. A smile broke through her stony expression as she remembered stumbling around in the dark.

With a world weary sigh, she tumbled back against the pillows. Her hand fell against the neighbouring pillow. Her fingers splayed against the cotton, enjoying the coolness of the material. The tips of her fingers brushed something brittle and sharp. She jerked back to inspect her index finger. A small spot of blood, no bigger than a pin head, ran down her finger in an ugly line. Looking up at the offending item, her breath stuck in her throat.

A single, long stem rose sat on the pillow, lost between the folds of the bedspread. Its petals almost too dark and rich a colour to be called red. She reached out and traced the edges of the petals. Its velvety softness caught and rubbed against her wounded finger, not that it was an unpleasant sensation. Drawing her eyes away from the flower, she settled on the digital clock on the bedside table. She had to squint slightly to see the date. A curse built up in her throat. _February 14th_. Well at least someone hadn't forgotten.

Placing her fingers between the thorns, she lifted the rose into her lap. The stem caught on something. Reaching between the layers of sheets, she drew out a golden envelope. She turned it over in her hands, the rough texture reminding her of Christmas paper. Her name was scribbled elegantly on the front. With a smile, she tucked her hair behind her ears and ripped the top off the envelope, eagerly. It wasn't disappointment that she felt as she drew out the plain cream coloured card, but it was close. Not that she expected it to be flashy. But something with a heart on it, surely wasn't too much to ask. Her displeasure with the card was quickly replaced as she read the handwritten message.

_You Look Beautiful When You're Asleep. The Clock Tower. 9pm. Don't Be Late_.

For reservations on Valentine's Day, he must have had it booked for months. All for her. And what had she done? Forgotten the single most romantic day of the year. A smile curved her lips upwards. Well she'd have to make it up to him. Somehow.


End file.
